


Part 2: Stir-Fry

by kw20742



Series: Something Like Love [3]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, Explicit Language, F/F, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 04:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15429450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kw20742/pseuds/kw20742
Summary: Scene continuation from episode 2.2: Tuesday, May 13, 2014. The evening before the start of Joe Miller’s trial. Jocelyn has been summoned to the Latimers. The story Maggie’s been chasing on this day is detailed in “The Letter” in the original short story series by Erin Kelly.The letter Jocelyn recites can be found in _The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf_ (Cleis Press 2004).





	Part 2: Stir-Fry

**Author's Note:**

> Scene continuation from episode 2.2: Tuesday, May 13, 2014. The evening before the start of Joe Miller’s trial. Jocelyn has been summoned to the Latimers. The story Maggie’s been chasing on this day is detailed in “The Letter” in the original short story series by Erin Kelly.
> 
> The letter Jocelyn recites can be found in _The Letters of Vita Sackville-West and Virginia Woolf_ (Cleis Press 2004).

As soon as Maggie hears the Latimer’s doorbell chime, she abandons Olly and Paul for the front room.

She has no idea what it was that finally convinced Jocelyn to take the brief (she’ll pry it out of her eventually), but she does know that she, Maggie, has certainly played some role in dragging one kicking and screaming QC back into practice again.

And Jocelyn is sure to be rather dazed when she discovers all these people here; it’s not only inappropriate (barristers don’t, _can’t,_ socialize with current clients), but also, for Jocelyn, too emotionally intense. Despite her brilliance in court, she’s an introvert through and through and just doesn’t enjoy being among large groups of people. Plus, having never been all that great at small talk and socializing to begin with, she’s definitely out of practice these days. Forget managing the raging torrent of emotions pulsing through this motley crew.

Unfortunately, Maggie had learned too late that Beth had called Ben, asking for Jocelyn. Had she known, she would’ve advised Beth not to make the call. And, had there been time, she would’ve warned Jocelyn that it was coming. But none of that was possible, so here they all are, late on a Tuesday afternoon in May, waiting for the prodigious Jocelyn Knight to arrive in Spring Close.

And Maggie is at least determined to be the first person Jocelyn sees when Beth brings her into the front room. A friendly face. She considers their last blistering encounter two weeks ago in her office at the _Echo_ : well, if not friendly, then at least familiar. More familiar than the rest, at any rate. Worst case scenario, Maggie thinks only half-jokingly, is that she’ll volunteer to be the one for Jocelyn to punch if it all gets out of hand.

Maggie positions herself at the centre of the room just in time for a quick nod and a smile to Chloe and Lucy as they hear Beth open the front door: “Hi, Jocelyn. Thanks for coming.”

“I had a message from Ben you needed to see me urgently?”

Oh, that voice. Smooth, soft, splendid.

“Yeah.” Beth closes the door and shouts, coming back into view, “Everyone! Jocelyn’s here.”

Maggie catches Jocelyn’s flustered protest. “No!” And then, all at once, here she is, in the Latimer’s front room, like a deer caught in headlights.

Jocelyn spots Maggie, and Maggie has the oddest desire to give her an encouraging “thumbs up,” as if they were school mates on the football pitch. But Jocelyn glances to the floor and then back up at Beth, who has only just realized that she probably should have told Jocelyn she’d have a bigger audience than just she and Mark.

“Oh, sorry. It just sort of mushroomed?”

Mark comes in, walking in front of Maggie, but she leans a bit to the right to keep her eyes firmly fixed on Jocelyn, offering, should she need it, silent support from across the room.

Jocelyn’s eyes flit to Mark, over to Maggie again, and then back to Beth, as she continues, “We wanted to thank everyone for being witnesses and giving evidence for Danny, and I just thought you could clue us in on what to expect?”

Jocelyn is, by now, staring at Beth, lips parted, as if slowly working out what these people could possibly want from her the evening before opening statements of her first trial in more than three years. It’s almost comical. But, like clockwork, Jocelyn’s professional code of conduct kick in, and she responds, gently but firmly, “It’s completely inappropriate. I shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have asked me.”

Maggie is a little bit proud: Jocelyn seems to be finding her way just nicely through the chaos of how to be in this room, in this moment. Good on her.

“Oh, we didn’t know.” Beth looks to Mark, who confirms their inexperience, “We haven’t done this before. Sorry.”

Jocelyn exhales, looking from Mark to Beth and then back again. What can they expect? What can she tell them? What _should_ she tell them? Certainly not that she’s never argued a case before this judge, or that they’re likely to lose Joe Miller’s confession right from the start. Definitely not that she’s going blind. No, let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we? Probably not that Sharon used to be her junior, and they did not part on good terms. Or that she’s so ecstatic about being back in court again that she hasn’t been eating or sleeping properly for days.

Somehow, though, the Latimers’ demonstrable anxiety grounds her and she remembers that she and Maggie, formerly of a major daily national’s London crime desk, are likely the only ones in this room who know how a criminal trial works, who’ve actually sat in a courtroom and experienced one first hand.

Exhaling one more time, she steps toward the group, all of whom are staring at her expectantly, apprehensively. Ben has interviewed some of them, prepared them to give evidence. Others she knows only by association and is putting faces to names for the first time. There’s Mark and Beth, of course. And Paul Coates, the new vicar, Oliver Stevens (so that’s Maggie’s Boy Wonder), Mark’s colleague Nigel, Maggie—dearest Maggie, she could give her a good kick in the backside for this, lovely Chloe Latimer, whom she remembers coming into Jack’s store as a toddler, and Ellie Miller’s sister, Lucy.

Having quickly assessed her audience, much as she would a jury, Jocelyn begins carefully, looking steadily at each spectator in turn: “A criminal trial is a detailed, unpredictable process. There are no guarantees. We have a difficult task ahead.” She intentionally hasn’t said much. She looks back to Maggie. For reassurance? There is a calming empathy in those slate blue eyes, and Jocelyn is surprised by how grateful she is that Maggie is here. She continues, “If you’ve been called, don’t confer on your evidence. And never lie. Lies get exposed in court.”

Beth assures her, “You’re fine there. None of us have got anything left to hide.”

Seeming not to notice (although Maggie certainly does, and she’d bet Jocelyn does, too) the obvious evidence to the contrary as several pairs of eyes shift uncomfortably, Jocelyn continues, “I’ll do everything I can to secure a conviction, but it’s not just down to me. It’s on everyone in this room. Everyone in this town.

“Now,” she looks at Beth, excusing herself, “I really shouldn’t be here.”

Jesus Christ, Maggie reflects not for the first time today, this really _is_ going to be like Katherine Hepburn playing the local rep. Between preparing for the trial and moving the _Echo_ office from the High Street to harbourside, she hasn’t let herself think too much about having another opportunity to watch Jocelyn Knight in court—or about why she’s _trying_ not to think about it—but ancient memories of flowing black silk threaten to distract her. She even looked gorgeous in that ludicrous wig, for fuck’s sake, and that’s saying something.

And just like that, as quickly as she arrived, Jocelyn is gone. Maggie hears the front door open and hesitates barely a second before heading out after her. No one will miss her here, and she’ll see Olly back at the _Echo_ in an hour for the last push.

***

She catches up to Jocelyn just outside the gate, on the path that rings the commons.

“Weren’t expecting that, were you?”

“Got ambushed.” Jocelyn admits, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

“How’s it going, though?” Maggie asks, ever pushing her windblown hair out of her eyes, “Are you ready for the battle ahead?”

Both she and Jocelyn know full well that she doesn’t mean only the trial.

By way of an answer, Jocelyn grips Maggie’s right shoulder and asks, “Would you read to me?”

The words have escaped Jocelyn’s lips before her brain has a chance to fully consider them, and she is as surprised by the request as Maggie seems to be. Normally, Jocelyn doesn’t mind being alone. She enjoys it, actually. But there’s a great difference between being alone and being lonely. And this evening, Jocelyn is feeling that difference acutely. She has a terrible sense of emotional rawness that she doesn’t quite know what to do with. Taking refuge in a familiar novel would help, but if she reads tonight, she’s afraid of the stamina of her eyes tomorrow. And quite suddenly, she only wants to be with Maggie, who reaches up to cover Jocelyn’s hand with her own.

Maggie is surprised, worried, full of regret. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I can’t. Not tonight.” Jocelyn’s obvious disappointment is almost more than she can bear, and she rushes to explain. “I’ve got a few hours’ work yet. I’ve been chasing a story all day, and I’ve got to put pen to paper tonight. I won’t have time tomorrow.”

Embarrassed by her uncharacteristic neediness, Jocelyn pulls her hand out from under Maggie’s, drops both her hands into her coat pockets, and picks up her speed. “Right. Of course. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I’m glad you did,” Maggie assures her as she adjusts to the new, quicker pace. “I wish I could.”

Jocelyn’s quick sideways glance is clouded by skepticism. She keeps walking.

“Honestly, I do!” exclaims Maggie, holding up her right hand as if under oath. “I could use a bit of a break, myself. It’s been one of those days.” Maggie sniggers, adding to silently herself, it’s been one of those fucking _years_. She exhales, letting some of the day’s tension go from her shoulders. It’s been unusually busy, and she never did get around to eating the sandwich Lil had so kindly packed for her.

Suddenly, she realizes: Food! And a nice, hot cuppa. These will revive her waning energy, give her the push she needs to go back to the office. _And_ let her make it up to Jocelyn at the same time.

“Listen,” Maggie entreats, “I’m starving. What about I buy us a quick supper?”

Before Jocelyn can utter the refusal Maggie knows is coming, she threads her left arm through the crook of Jocelyn’s right, playfully rebuking her. “Don’t you dare say no. We’ve got to eat.”

And so Maggie all but drags a reluctant Jocelyn up to the High Street.

***

“I’ve been wanting to try this place for ages,” Maggie confesses hungrily as she sits down to her bowl of green curry and steaming mug of Earl Grey. Because this is rural England, petal, and the Thai couple who own this unassuming little café know and appreciate their local patrons.

Across the table, Jocelyn raises a skeptical eyebrow as she picks a prawn out of her stir-fry.

“What?” Maggie challenges.

“This place isn’t twenty yards from where, until just last week, your office used to be.”

“It’s new!”

“Four years is not new,” Jocelyn scoffs.

“In Broadchurch it is,” Maggie retorts, grinning, knowing that local girl Jocelyn will understand.

She does. And she smiles affectionately. Maggie really has settled in here. Except for the tell tale Yorkshire accent that sneaks out every now and again, and the fact that she never, ever goes out on the bay, you’d almost think she was Broadchurch born and bred.

“Besides,” Maggie continues, struggling to tame a slice of carrot with her chopsticks, “Lil doesn’t like Thai food.” Maggie adds grumpily to herself: Lil doesn’t like a lot of things these days.

Jocelyn notes the slight animosity in Maggie’s tone. She’s never met Lil, but she saw them together, early last summer. Before Danny. Laughing over a packet of chips down on the boardwalk. They looked happy, relaxed. They didn’t see her. Jack had mentioned once when she was in his shop buying her weekly copy of the _New Statesman_ , that Lil is a Lecturer over at Exeter, and she wondered at the time whether she had been there during her mum’s tenure. Jocelyn was genuinely happy for them. Truly, despite the little wrench of despair that tightened in her chest. Maggie had finally found someone who deserved her.

But Jocelyn seems to recall, also, that Lil doesn’t actually live in Broadchurch, that she’s here mostly on weekends and in between terms. She’s not sure where she learned that; this town’s grapevine is long and thick. Even when you hide yourself away in your clifftop house, you still need groceries and the occasional trip to the pharmacy. And although Jocelyn looks inquisitively at Maggie, she resists the barrister’s urge to poke and probe for more information.

They eat in companionable silence for several minutes. It is Maggie who begins the conversation again.

“You did well back there. At Beth and Mark’s.”

Jocelyn responds by rummaging through her noodles for another prawn.

“But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh?”

“How’s it going?”

“Maggie,” Jocelyn admonishes, “you know I can’t talk about the trial. And certainly not with a journalist.”

“First of all, we’re off the record here. Believe me, you’d know if we weren’t. And second, I’m not asking about the trial. I’m asking about _you_. As your friend.”

“Oh,” Jocelyn murmurs, picking at a small crack in the linoleum tabletop. She considers this word, ‘friend.’ Jocelyn never had many and, thus, didn’t ever really learn how to be one. Friend. Such a small word carrying such weight. Especially when Maggie uses it to describe their relationship. Are they friends? Were they ever? And if so, Jocelyn asks herself not for the first time since moving back three years ago, why? Jocelyn could never understand why the clever, gorgeous, bold new editor of the Broadchurch _Echo_ wanted to be her friend in the first place, all those years ago. And then…

Jocelyn had jumped on the train to Waterloo that first afternoon of the new millennium and never looked back. She had run, fast, hard, and gasping for air, away from Maggie. She had to. Or at least, she thought she did. She didn’t return the two phone calls Maggie made to the flat or the message left with her clerk. She never read Maggie’s letter. But it still sits, unopened, in the antique trunk at the end of her bed, nestled in the folds of the scarf Maggie once lent her. Jocelyn had run from overwhelming desire and emotional bewilderment and the miracle of Maggie’s dazzling smile. She had made a choice, and she had learned to live with it. Mostly.

She’s begun to understand, though, that in some perverse way, coming back to Broadchurch, hiding away up in her family’s house, has been part self-inflicted atonement for her many, many sins. Not least of which was not ever telling Maggie that she loved her. _Loves_ her. Still.

“Hey,” Maggie asks softly, nudging Jocelyn’s foot playfully under the table, “what’s happening over there? Everything alright?”

“Yes. I’m just…” Jocelyn’s hand flutters absent-mindedly to the loose fabric at her neck. It’s so difficult to explain some of what she’s feeling, and she certainly can’t tell Maggie the rest. So she settles on: “I’m way out of my depth. With Mark and Beth. I know they’ve been through a terrible time, and this trial is going to force them to revisit all of it. I’ve tried to prepare them, but…”

Maggie nods. “They need a lot of support. Especially since Liz passed.”

“Did I ever tell you we were at school together?”

“You and Beth’s mum?!”

Jocelyn nods. “She was several years behind me. We played in the combined Wessex youth orchestra. Me on cello, she on violin. We lost touch once I went up to Oxford, so I never knew Beth as a child. But it’s dawned on me in this last little while that if I’d stayed here, followed a similar path, I might have a daughter the same age. Older, even.”

“And you’re feeling pressured to take on a bit of mothering in Liz’s absence?”

Jocelyn nods, swallowing some noodles. “But I don’t know how, Maggie. And I don’t want to. I have to be able to do my job.”

“What about Ben? Can he intervene somehow?”

She posits, “Perhaps. I’ll most certainly have to talk to him about being more discerning about what counts as ‘urgent,’ though,” Jocelyn continues, referring to Beth’s recent call.

“Well, you did well back there, in any case.” It’s true. Every word. But Maggie decides that the best way she can help Jocelyn during the trial is to support the Latimers so that they leave Jocelyn to the necessary work of building an airtight prosecution. She can try to step in and be mum for a little while. Especially since she knows how a criminal trial works and may be able to answer questions or allay their concerns. And she knows Beth better than Jocelyn does. ‘See,’ Maggie is tempted to tease Jocelyn, ‘I do understand the occasional need for compartments.’ But she doesn’t.

“How’s he otherwise? Ben? Is he working well?”

“Very well. He’s smart, competent, keen. Says he saw me argue a case during a school trip up to London when he was seventeen.”

Jocelyn rolls her eyes, and Maggie commiserates, “We’re so old!” They laugh together until Maggie ventures, quite earnestly, “Speaking of which, though, what’s your strategy for all the reading?”

“Ben makes audio recordings of the files. His voice is quite lovely, actually. Soothing. Prep takes a little longer than I would like as a result, but I think it’ll be fine.”

Maggie’s nose for news has been activated: “Jocelyn, you have told him why you need him to do that, yes?”

Jocelyn looks up at her sheepishly, and Maggie sighs in exasperation. “That’s a lot of extra work for him, and I bet he’d appreciate knowing why he’s doing it. He may even be more inclined.”

“I’ll tell him.” She pauses. “Eventually.”

“Jocelyn!” Maggie begins a rebuke, but Jocelyn interrupts her.

“Enough, Maggie!” she barks. But then her tone softens to confess, “I’m just feeling exceedingly jumpy. I’ll feel better once we get started tomorrow.” She takes a sip of water. “I haven’t been this nervous since my first case in silk. I don’t know the judge, and there were some inconsistencies in the police investigation that are likely to make my job rather more difficult than it should be, but...” She smiles broadly, blue eyes alight with sheer joy. “I’m just so excited!” She catches herself. “I know that’s a terrible thing to say, but…”

Maggie nods in vigorous agreement. “No, I know what you mean. I scolded the Boy Wonder earlier for his overt enthusiasm, but I’ve been feeling the same way. This is what we trained for, Jocelyn, what we’re good at. This sort of thing, a high-profile trial, it’s at the heart of our work. It’s just more complicated because it hits so close to home.”

“Yes, exactly!” Jocelyn is delighted, relieved, to be able to talk about this enduring conflict with someone who truly understands it. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and this is the first decent meal I’ve taken time to eat in about a week.” She pauses. “Thank you, by the way.”

Maggie raises her veggie and noodle-laden chopsticks in a gesture of acknowledgement. “My pleasure. Somebody has to make sure you eat properly.”

“And on the topic of gratitude,” Jocelyn says quite seriously, “I never did thank you for all your help with my mum. Finding the care home and getting her settled.”

Maggie shakes her head, swallowing her mouthful. “Well, you’re welcome. But there’s no need. She was very kind to me, and I loved our long afternoon rambles along the cliffs. It was she, more than anyone else, who helped me settle in here during those first few years.”

She reaches for her glass of water, stalling to consider whether to add a piece to this puzzle, knowing that it will be news to Jocelyn, and worried about her reaction. But Maggie wants Jocelyn to know this about her mum, so she takes a sip, swallows, and plunges forward: “Veronica toted me to and from five months of chemo treatments and made me the most delicious soups when I couldn’t possibly think about eating anything solid, let alone cooking it.”

Jocelyn looks up sharply at the word “chemo,” her expression an interrogative mix of horror, shame, and concern.

Maggie clarifies, quite matter-of-factly, “Breast cancer. Stage 2. Bloody awful time.”

“When?” Jocelyn is stunned; she had no idea.

“I’ve been in remission for eight years and seventy-four days.”

Jocelyn nods, quickly doing the math in her head as despair mingles with accusation, “You never told me.”

Maggie shrugs and, by way of explanation, reminds her, “We weren’t in touch.” There is no resentment in her statement, merely fact.

Jocelyn is quiet. It was 2004. The year she won _both_ the Legal 500 UK Award and the UK Chambers Bar Award. Before her mum started to forget things. Before she began to notice her own eye problems. And well before she was willing to admit (or even recognize) that the confusion and euphoria and fear and desire she felt for Maggie was love. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe Mum didn’t tell me.”

“There’s this thing called ‘privacy,’ Jocelyn,” Maggie pronounces, aiming for levity and doing her best impersonation of the woman sitting across from her.

“Still,” she whispers, her eyes filling with tears as she looks for solace by tracing the lines of a green onion at the side of her bowl. So many, many sins with which to reckon.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t tell you to upset you or make you feel guilty. It’s over. I survived, and I’m likely well past a relapse. And, look,” she demands, reaching across the small table to grab Jocelyn’s forearm for emphasis, making sure she looks up and into her eyes, “I’m healthy as an ox! Much to the dismay of a good many people who haven’t liked what I’ve written about them over the years,” she adds sardonically.

Despite herself, Jocelyn smirks and splutters as Maggie continues: “My point is that you’re mum’s been a good friend to me. And I wanted you to know that she’s loved around here. Which is why you need not thank me for my help. I’m incredibly grateful to her. I want to see her comfortable and happy.”

There is no need for Maggie to ask how Veronica is doing, and no need for Jocelyn to tell her. They both know, without having ever planned or discussed it, that, now she’s back in Broadchurch, Jocelyn goes in for breakfast most days, and Maggie pops in about twice a week for dinner. And that Veronica no longer remembers either of them.

“And… So… What about you?” Jocelyn inquires awkwardly, suddenly remembering that Maggie’s been reporting on Danny’s death, the police investigation, and the impending hearing-turned-trial for the best part of a year now. It must have taken its toll. Plus, this is what friends do. Apparently. They ask about each other’s lives. What else has she missed while she was hiding in London, so afraid of her heart?

“What about me?” Maggie teases, not wanting to make it too easy for her.

Jocelyn scowls, arching her eyebrows, knowing full well Maggie knows exactly what she’s asking. “How are you doing. With all of this.” She gestures in the general direction of the world outside this little Thai café on the Broadchurch High Street. Their last real conversation, it occurs, was late last summer when Maggie came up to the house to ask about Jack. It didn’t go well.

Maggie grins, glances at the clock on the wall above the till, notices it’s gone half-five, and quips, “How much time have you got?”

They laugh, and Jocelyn doesn’t say that Maggie could have the rest of her life if she’d take it. And Maggie has no earthly idea why, of all the shit that’s been going on lately, her brain decides to blurt out, “Lil’s been after me to retire or go freelance. So I can move to hers in Exeter.”

“Ah,” Jocelyn replies, not quite knowing how to respond to this news. Jocelyn can’t even imagine Maggie leaving Broadchurch. “She’s a Lecturer at the university, yes?”

“Mmmn,” Maggie nods, “American literature.”

“Do Americans _have_ literature?” She can’t help herself, even as her mind’s eye drifts to the little bookshelf in her bedroom that houses her favourites: Chopin, Wharton, Walker, Morrison…

“Oh, stop.” But Maggie grins. And then changes the subject: “But today was a good day. Today I remembered why I love my work.”

“Oh? This is the story you’ve been working on?”

“Yup,” Maggie says, drinking the last of her tea.

“Anything you can share?”

“Nope,” Maggie teases, “You’ll have to buy my ‘rag’ to see for yourself.” She glances again at the wall clock above the till. “Speaking of which, though, I’ve got to get back to it.”

She stands, grabs her bag and jacket of the back of her chair with one hand, picks up her tray with the other, and uses her right hip to push the chair back under the table. Jocelyn gathers her own bag, coat, and tray and follows Maggie to the rubbish bin.

“This used to be simpler,” Maggie grumbles while trying to negotiate trash, recycling, and compost. She feels more than hears Jocelyn soft giggle beside her. “Don’t laugh!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it!” Jocelyn promises while helping Maggie sort their refuse into its appropriate receptacles.

And then they’re out on the sidewalk.

“You’ll be alright? Up there by yourself tonight?”

“Yes,” Jocelyn affirms, shifting her bag from one hand to the other to don her coat. “I’m ready. There’s nothing more to be done until tomorrow. I think I’ll make a cup of tea and plug my headphones into a book.”

“That sounds blissful,” Maggie responds, not even trying to hide her envy. “What have you got on the go?”

Jocelyn considers lying for a fraction of a second, and then decides not to. Maggie would only find her out anyway. So, looking her square in the eye, the better to gauge her response, Jocelyn states, rather more bravely than she feels: “I’m working my way through the letters between our very own Vita and Virginia.”

“Well,” Maggie falters, caught entirely off guard, “that’s unexpected! With your mood lately, I figured you’d go in for something a bit more morose.” Aiming for good-humored ridicule, she names the two most depressing authors she can think of. “Sylvia Plath or James Joyce or somebody.”

In response, Jocelyn sticks her chin out defiantly, a saucy glint in her eye, and flips Maggie an “up yours” gesture.

It’s swiftly done, the very adult equivalent of sticking her tongue out on the playground, and Maggie guffaws—loudly—at the exquisite hilarity of Jocelyn Knight trying to be vulgar. “Who _are_ you?!” Maggie queries incredulously, as both women descend into outright giggling while glancing furtively around to see if anyone witnessed the exchange.

Then it hits her like a ton of bricks: Did Jocelyn just come out to her? Finally? ‘Our own Vita and Virginia,’ she had said. But whose? Who do they belong to in this context? England? Women? Writers? Lesbians? And to which of the categories does Jocelyn admit to belonging? So typically enigmatic. So inscrutably Jocelyn-esque. And Maggie still doesn’t know the answer to the question in the first place.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” Maggie tries to plow on through, keeping her tone light. “Such beautiful writing between the two of them, though,” is all she can think of to say.

By way of reply, Jocelyn recites quietly, from memory, looking out to sea to calm her nerves, “’I can’t be clever and standoffish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly.’” She looks cautiously back to Maggie, who joins in, and they finish together, “’You have no idea how standoffish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.’”

Maggie exhales languorously. “Can you imagine? Receiving a letter like that?”

Jocelyn nods in dreamy agreement, “Who wouldn’t have fallen head over heels for Vita?” She puts her bag on her shoulder. “Thanks again for supper, Maggie.”

Maggie shrugs as she puts on her jacket, “I was hungry.” She slings her own bag over her head and across her chest, ready for the walk down to the _Echo_ ’s new harbourside office. “Now listen, you,” she draws Jocelyn into a firm hug, “you break a leg tomorrow, alright?”

Jocelyn nods affirmatively into Maggie’s shoulder. It’s been such a long, long time since she had a hug at all, let alone a hug from Maggie, and she lets herself melt a little bit into it. The embrace is solid, comforting, warm. And then it’s over.

Smiling encouragingly, Maggie quips, “See you at court!” and she’s off. Down the footpath beside The Traders, toward the harbour and out of sight. Jocelyn turns in the opposite direction and heads home by way of Linton Hill. A lovely walk to enjoy the warm evening sun. And to think.

As soon as Maggie rounds the corner, certain that Jocelyn can no longer see her, she sinks down onto the top of an obliging stone wall. “Bollocks,” she whispers as she wills her body not to betray her. But it’s too late: she feels her nipples harden and her abdomen curl tightly with rekindled desire. And she can think of nothing but the feel of Jocelyn’s lithe body in her arms. “I am reduced,” she whispers, “to a thing that wants Virginia.”


End file.
